


Bloody Heterosexuals

by qwertysweetea



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Closeted Character, Drunken Kissing, Gay Male Character, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Pansexual Character, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: Gene’s not gay. Not at all. Not even a teeny-tiny bit. Which is why there is nothing remotely un-heterosexual about this, because both of them were completely, completely heterosexual. As straight as you can get.Sam sees it differently. Mainly, he sees it from being doubled over a table or pressed hard into a wall with Gene too close to properly focus on, battling a relentless attack on his lips.





	Bloody Heterosexuals

**Author's Note:**

> I got my first "not everything has to be gay" comment and this is an extremely salty, 1894 word reply in which Gene Hunt is definitely not gay, and Sam is also not very gay at all.
> 
> Warning: Very homophobic language.

Gene’s not gay. Not at all. Not even a teeny-tiny bit. But then again neither is Sam.

He teases him about it a lot but they both know that it isn’t true; Sam likes women, and not just those beautiful to look at, perfect to fuck, pale-skinned, big-boobed women you look at in magazines after your wife’s gone to bed with a headache.

Sam likes women of different races and the plainer-looking, feminist types who muscle their way into the man’s workplace and expect to be seen as equals. That’s about as heterosexual as you can get when you’re as in touch with your feels as Sam is.

Sam likes Cartwright, and he likes her a lot more than he should. He looks at her like he wants to get down on one knee and pull a ridiculous sized diamond out of his jacket every time she smiles, regardless of whether or not she was smiling at him.

Gene likes beautiful to look at, perfect to fuck, pale-skinned, big-boobed women he looks at in magazines after his wife’s gone to bed with a headache. He likes his wife too, just in not nearly as embarrassingly hopeless a way as Sam likes Annie.

Which is why there is nothing remotely un-heterosexual about this because, as has been established, both of them were completely, completely heterosexual. As straight as you can get. If you could count on anything, Gene Hunt would make sure that it was that.

Sam saw it differently. Mainly, he saw it from being doubled over a table or pressed hard into a wall with Gene too close to properly focus on. It was a slightly different perspective to Gene.

The first time it happened he found himself pinned against the filing cabinet at gone six in the evening, battling a relentless attack on his lips, submitting only then the shock had passed and he realised there was something quite enjoyable about it.

It had been a long time since anyone had smacked him amount hard enough to leave marks. Gene didn’t care about leaving marks; it wasn’t him who would take the brunt of it later on. Sam enjoyed pressure marks from fingers, and love bites, sore muscles. He liked seeing a mix of all ages across his skin.

He liked to think that Annie would do that at some point, but at the moment Gene did do that, and he was strangely alright about it.

Gene’s kisses were sloppy and insincere with a forcefulness behind them that made him open his mouth to them instantly. Sam had always been able to appreciate a good kiss by a good kisser, and Gene knew how to give good kisses even when his hands always seemed on the wrong side of rough and his spatial-awareness was poor.

That Gene could kiss was almost as big a surprise as him finding out at all.

That’s all it had been that night, sloppy drunken kisses and a lot of verbal abuse about it once it was over.

“I’m not a queer.”

“Alright.”

“What, you think I’m lying?”

“No Guv, I get it. You’re not a queer.” His insides churned with the cringe he couldn’t express but there was no correcting him tonight, even if it was just the one word.

It was only the first time and by all amounts would probably be the last, so he would let him off. He might have even accepted Gene’s insistence of heterosexuality as well -

He was a modern man. He could accept the fluidity of sexuality or the effects of experimentation on identity. Without going too deep into the psychology side of things, he could accept a certain amount of repression.

\- but this wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the first, second, third, or fourth time he’d found himself in the same position after the others instigation. He'd lost count of how many times he found himself here, Gene's hands all over him, leaving him wanting more every time they pulsed with movement the day after.

Hand holding on to his short hair, grip tight on his hip or maybe the back of his neck if Gene had got him from behind, hips grinding hard on his… sometimes he’d grip his jaw and Sam would make these embarrassing noises and if Gene wasn’t behind him before then, then he would be after that, cheek pressed roughly into the plasterboard and hand on the side of his head like he was being arrested.

Gene liked it best that way. It never lasted long after that. He could pretend that Sam was a woman far easier than he could when he had the other’s cock pressing into his leg when he got handsy; that’s the how he explained it anyway, when Sam allowed himself to get cocky over a particularly vicious hurt-mark the desk had left against the bottom of his ribs, leaving him struggling to breath.

Not that there was any way of really mistaking him for a woman, all short hair and stubble and an Adam’s Apple that could take out his eye if his lips traveled far enough down his throat.

It was never mentioned.

Then it had been going on about two months without a hint that it was wearing thin on Gene, and Sam didn’t know how many times he’d been caught against a desk, wall, door, or somewhere as risky the elevator, or at what point he’d started hanging around past the end of shift just to see if it was one of those days.

On occasion he left with Annie when she fancied being escorted home, and he could swear the evenings after those were far more demanding, aggressive, and lasted not nearly long enough.

Himself, heterosexual? Not entirely. It was all really simple, at least in his mind: He knew what he was comfortable with. He knew what he would let happen and what he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

Gene, heterosexual? Repressed homophobe? One was certain, both were established every single time using an array of colourful language while Sam was pulling himself together enough to make the trip home.

Heterosexual. Heterosexual. Heterosexual.

It wasn’t wearing thin on Gene, but Sam could definitely feel it wearing thin on him.

“You should have heard him Guv, cryin’ like a little bitch about us givin’ ‘im a chance to explain.” Ray laughed.

“He were an’ all. Said he didn’t know how it’d got there. Can ya imagine? Ten grand worth of hallucinogenics.”

“Bloody poof honestly expected me an’ Chris to let ‘im off with it n’all.”

“That’s the problem with bloody shirt-lifters though, ain’t it? Think the law will look the other way for a quick suck-off and a smack on the wrist.” Gene contributed with a laugh, emptying the last of his glass.

“Shirt-lifter?” Sam hadn’t expected it to be anything but under his breath, but he was on his second drink and after almost an hour of listening to their increasing discriminatory conversation had completely forgot to moderate the volume and sass in his voice. “Really?”

“Christ, here he goes again.”

He chose not to reply, out of respect for Gene’s secrets more than out of respect for Gene. Whatever of it there was left was taking a moral battering by every part of him which pulsed 2007.

Three more drinks in and the eventual retirement of the rest of the department for the evening saw him be much less forgiving towards Gene, especially when he left alongside him.

“What the bloody Hell was that about?”

“Bit ironic, don’t you think?”

Sarcasm, sass, general deadpan disbelief were almost his trademark when it came to conversations like this, but he reckoned he had enough drink in him to silence that little part of him that told him to stick to what he knew best.

What came out of his mouth was petty, rude and cloaked in resentment; it shocked him to hear.

“Taking the piss out of gays when you spend three evenings a week grinding against another man. I’m willing to bet I’ve got you off more in these past few weeks that you’ve let your wife in the past year.”

Sam was spun around, front slamming hard into the stone wall and his legs kicked apart. Fingers gripped onto the short strands of hair, tight enough to yank his head back without ripping them loose. Almost like every time before, but this time far more angry.

He’d pushed him too far this time. Maybe he meant too. He was angry… maybe he wanted the fight. Maybe he wanted more. He didn’t know. All he knew was that it had worn thin, and underneath he was tired and irritated.

His hands were caught between him and the wall, cheek and temple held tight to it by the hand on the side of his face as Gene pushed it back into the brick.

“I’ll give you this one because I know your light-weight arse can’t handle more than a double before you’re flat out on your back crying about Cartwright sucking on her professor’s dick for a first, but I will say this: Don’t presume you know a thing about me Tyler.” He hissed, lips barely a breath from the back of his neck. “And don’t ever, ever presume you get to speak about my wife.”

Sam groaned in pain, hands trapped between the exposed brick and his body, his and Gene’s combined weight pressing onto them. He tried to free them, but the squirm was anticipated and stopped with additional weight.

“Got it?”

“Got it Guv.” He huffed out.

The fierce kiss that landed on his lips seconds later, all tongue and teeth, depth, warmth, and everything Gene was so good at giving was the final straw. Gathering all the drunken strength he had he tore his lips again and pushed his way out of Gene’s relenting grip.

“If you ain’t a shirt-lifting, queer, cock-sucking, fairy poof then why the Hell are you here, pinning this shirt-lifting, queer, cock-sucking, fairy poof to whatever you can find? Huh?

“Why aren’t you are home smacking about your _wife_ , or some loose blonde you can find in any club across the city you like telling us you like so much? Why are you so adamant you’re not as big a shirt-lifting, queer, cock-sucking, fairy poof as I am when you spend an hour a night with your tongue down my bloody throat?! And fuck you for what you said about Annie too!”

“Because neither of us are shirt-lifting, queer, cock-sucking, fairy poofs Tyler!” He looked legitimately angry, but made no move towards him.

“What do you think this is?! Come on, you’re the expert at derogatory language! What do you call two men who fuck each other?”

Gene pointed at him, face suddenly going stony and a little white at the thought. “We’ve never fucked!”

“That doesn’t make it any less gay now, does it?”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Yes it does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

There was a pause, Gene having moved a step at a time closer 'til the other was barely an arms-length away. His expression became tenser, though Sam wouldn’t have thought it possible had he not seen it. “Ooh shut up.”

His back was back against the wall this time, he hadn’t even realised he’d be moving back towards it, and Gene’s lips were back on his as relentless as they had been the first time. “Bloody Heterosexuals” was all he managed to get out around Gene’s lips.


End file.
